


Vintage

by 68932



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/68932/pseuds/68932
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dinner dates don't always have a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vintage

**Author's Note:**

> Slipped back into second person halfway through this. Still not sure which I prefer.

She slams down her wine, sending the dark liquid washing against the wall of the glass. The overdressed waiter widens his eyes as he passes, and the pretentious couple at the table next to them begins to murmur behind raised hands, but she doesn't care. If she had her way, she'd never set foot in one of these places again. This is so typical of him. A too-expensive, extravagant dinner, with so many courses that she lost count before she could even process the number of forks on the table. A menu that was barely in english, and a dress code that taxed even Cabanela's extensive wardrobe. It wasn't as if she didn't have anything to wear, or that the waiter snickered as she'd stubbornly butchered the french on the menu, or even the clear distaste the other patrons had for their presence. It was the fact that the flickering candlelight and low murmur of the place meant that there was nothing to do but stare dreamily into the eyes of whoever sat across from you, as they stroked your hand and whispered sweet nothings into your ear. It was that the bottle of wine sitting on the table easily cost half of her paycheck, that he had reached for her hand they second they sat down, that he fell so easily into this.

He loved it, it was obvious, from the way he reached to tuck errant locks of hair behind her ear and refilled her wine glass, as if she couldn't do it herself. And she knows that they're the corny indications of love present in every single romance movie that's ever been thrown at a hollywood screen, and maybe at home they would curl up deep inside her, setting her heart pounding in a way that still makes her halfway sick to her stomach, but here? She can't stand it. It's disgusting, like they're on display, stuck up on some movie scene for an audience to gawk at. They'll "Aw," when he tries to order for her, and laugh as he sweeps through the cumbersome french titles with perfect pronunciation. He would probably love that. The inspector really missed out on a acting career, where his extravagance and flamboyance would have won him everything. Maybe even an oscar.

Never mind the fact that all she wants to do is curl up next to him on the couch and fall asleep together as they watch some bad movie. Not that she's ever going to say that out loud, or even let it linger long enough in her head to imagine her lips around the words, but shouldn't he know somehow? Doesn't he feel it? She doesn't have that same thirst for excitement, or exhibitionism, whatever you want to call it. As far as she's concerned, she'd rather their relationship be a secret from everyone but themselves, just some sort of recurrent weakness that happens when she spends a little too much time at his apartment. Some sort of…design flaw, triggered by the the way he runs his hands through the greying sides of his hair when he thinks she isn't looking, or brings her breakfast in bed every morning, no matter how long he'd spent tossing and turning sleepless the night before.

The food's in front of them now, tiny portions shaped by cutters and molds, geometric shapes and purees and sauces that she doesn't understand or care about. Somehow despite the price, it still doesn't manage to taste quite as good as when Cabanela's singing in front of the stove to fuzzy opera and sending her flying across the floor with dance step every time she passes through the kitchen. Her steak, or _filet mignon_ or whatever it is, is bleeding on the plate, fancy garnishes scraped to the side by an uncaring knife. The waiter sweeps by with another self-aggrandizing sniff, giving her a sneering smile as he leans stiffly over the table "Would the lady like another bottle of wine? What about you, sir?"

With a smile matching the condescension of his, she flatly denies the waiter's offer. "No. In fact, I think we'll take our check now." Without turning she already knows what's there, shocked open mouth which will turn to pleading placation before anyone sees. "Baaaby, wait-" She knows what he's going to say, doesn't want to hear it. Not now, not in the middle of a restaurant in front of a waiter ready to drink up any potential argument, with keen couples seated around them, pretending like they aren't eavesdropping. She doesn't wait. Instead she grabs her coat, pulling on the slim black jacket as she leaves the restaurant, too-tall heels clicking against the floor, marking every step.

Cabanela's frozen. What is he supposed to do now? This isn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't supposed to happen. With one last glance at the waiter, he slams a wad of cash down onto the table, before following the tall blonde out. What else can he do? Long strides quickly close the distance between them, but he stays just a step behind. All the way to the car he fidgets with the black box in his pocket, turning it over and over in his hand.

Finally, he pulls his hand from the pocket, slipping in front of Yomielle to open the door for her.


End file.
